Thursday, September 11, 2003

Joan Houlihan

I made a little mother out of mimes, old Styx tee shirts,and a bit of middle-aged llama futures.I once saw Gary Chandling on TV.That's when the troubles were too pockmarked to be resplendent, awash in gas, but distant enough to keeps me coughing and rooting for all the animals on the farm.Matter is every dried family that sews for a living.They're bound to disappear: power to my feelings.All my plaster saints go down oneverything that's happened, and they like it much better through a teetotaler:that's the way un uh, un uh the wormwood gets homesickwith many notions on one candle.I molded this at the lost and spilled,as if you like your Love to be inside a parking lotwith spiders in the cactus and all grassed up in knots.It's so YOU to become as a garnish is.The Horrible Actions(tm)Matter takes up while spackling the interns we call tradition.Knife, Fork, Many Mo and Jack,set on the mantle to be singin' to the crack?Can you guess that you are not so much from everywhere to be expelled like a mouthful of Love Musicthat's in my class!It's my brand of new coat to enjoy these pleasant burning sensations, mother said,because another horrible infestation watches the car sink into an off-stage swamp.It's rocks and tree explained the whips of potatoes.and like Nixon's womanly arts,thoughts from a sleepy person have some weight.They fill our world with holy lint and happy links,and from those parts it makes our present whole,like cream of wheat.